Saturday, 8 October 2016

Walking, Wandering, Striding, and Stomping

I went out at just before 5pm, weaving my
way through concrete until I finally hit grass. Grass became woods became ferns
became hills and sky – so much sky, stretching gloriously wide and gloriously
blue. The wind juddered at my ears. I climbed the final stretch, red-cheeked
and out of breath, heaving myself onto a rock to stare at the town I’d just
climbed out of. We over-use the phrase “on top of the world”, but here it was
apt: capturing what it feels like to stand, elevated above everything, aware of
scaling this huge mound of rock and earth that, from down there in the valley,
seems boundlessly large; to know that to anyone in that valley glancing out of
their window up at the hill, right now you’re a tiny dot – a match-stick speck
on this spine of green.

Two days later and I was in London, weaving
my way through the streets as I moved from Holborn to the Tate Modern to
Embankment on foot over the course of several hours (later to skip on to Tower
Bridge for an event with Red magazine and then on to see friends in Arsenal via tube: it was quite
the day). I lingered in the LRB Bookshop, dawdled along Drury Lane, poked my
nose through the door of vintage shops, and paced my way over Blackfriars
Bridge. By evening my blistered toes were impressive, but it had been worth it.

On another recent trip I saw Clissold Park
for the first time in bright Sunday sunshine, elated to be exactly where I was,
observing and walking and reveling in all the people going about their weekend
business. To repurpose Woolf, it embodied what I loved; life; London; this
moment of late September. I carried on to have coffee with my friend Rosie.
Together we spent an hour in Abney Park cemetery, scrutinizing the ivy-clad
gravestones, before moving on to London Fields - chatting all the way about
bodies, identity and fashion blogging. It was perfect, made all the better by
London having her best clothes on: streets decked out in sunshine and the odd
orange leaf.

As you may be able to tell, I like feeling
out places on foot. It’s how I move best: connecting up things through motion,
through that very simple action of putting one boot in front of the other (for
it is, nearly always, a boot). If I can walk around a city, I will. I want to
nose down side-alleys and duck into bookshops and work out where the streets
connect. I’m slightly uneasy until I’ve got a vague understanding of the space.

This last month I’ve not only paced my way
through London, but also Brighton, Oxford and Dublin: two well-known cities,
two new. Each yielded up their own offerings: clothes rails, book stalls, racks
of fabric, glimpses of living rooms, shop windows, beautiful buildings (and ugly
ones), crowds shifting and ebbing. I’ve also spent time rambling around the
much more sparsely populated countryside. Pavements and ferns. Streets and
narrow, stony paths. Buildings lit up at night and trees with the slant of
sunset on them. I love them all equally. Very different environments, but all
experienced with the same set of principles: curiosity in the new, comfort in the
familiar, and joy in the very simple process of being able to just stride and
observe.

This last month I’ve also thought a lot
about walking: mainly thanks to reading Lauren Elkin’s marvelous, marvelous book
Flâneuse. It’s a delicious read, charting the history and implications of
women walking around cities. Elkin lingers somewhere between memoir and cultural
criticism, interlacing her own wanderings with thoughts on Virginia Woolf,
George Sand, Sophie Calle, and plenty of other interesting figures. Most
crucially, she wrestles back the narrative of urban exploration from the men:
talking with wit and insight about the ways in which women have moved through
space, marked it, made it theirs and, sometimes, been rejected by it (for
indeed, who among us hasn’t felt that surge of panic while out by ourselves
late at night; suddenly, frustratingly aware that it’s easier for men to stride
around without thought after dark?)

Flâneuse is a glittering account of
female street haunters, lingerers, ramblers, stompers, and marchers; an
examination of looking and being looked at; a meditation on being lost, for
better and worse (on that note – also go and read Olivia Laing’s The Lonely City
similarly dazzling prose/ thoughts/ analysis); a celebration of being
inquisitive and open to whatever lies beyond the next corner; and a manifesto
for pulling on your shoes and just having a good old nose around. As she writes, the flâneuse is "a figure to to be reckoned with, and inspired by, all on her own. She voyages out and goes where she's not supposed to; she forces us to confront the ways in which words like home and belonging are used against women. She is a determined, resourceful individual keenly attuned to the creative potential of the city, and the liberating possibilities of a good walk."

Since reading it, I’ve made more of an
effort to walk consciously – to not just gallop along listening to music (as much
as I love having my own personal soundtrack), but to properly listen, and
properly look. It feels different. It feels richer. I’ve been more willing to
idle and move around without the little blue dot on google maps tagging along,
to just enjoy the scenery and snatches of life caught in passing: or in the
case of the hills, to enjoy the total and utter solitude for a brief while. As I
said, I’ve been putting one boot in front of another. And sometimes – as shown
here – my feet have been clad in gold.

These gold boots are by CAT. They sent them to me more than a year ago, and I wear them with astonishing regularity. They've taken me through mud, grass, and Edinburgh streets. The dress is a brilliant vintage number my mum bought online and then (begrudgingly) gave to me. Maybe this would have been better illustrated with images of me wandering around a city - but, well, it wouldn't be a proper blog post without some gorse and heather in there.

4 comments

Hi Rosalind, it's interesting the things we hear, see and think about when just wandering around. A few years ago, an art teacher talked about how people often walk around, looking at the ground, or listening to music, rather than taking in their surrounding, nature and looking above to the sky. I make more of an effort now to immerse myself in nature, and look up at the sky, especially when I'm on a bus. Xxx

I keep excepting for Lord Byron to turn out from somewhere and take you by the hand...I'm sure he would be equally mesmerized as I am by your beauty. You look utterly gorgeous in that green maxi dress...and the boots are the perfect touch. You make hiking seem wonderfully poetic...and perhaps it really is and probably I ought to do it more. For the last week or so, I've spend too much time behind closed doors. The scenary there is magnificent...and you're are equally breath-taking.

I always felt like the best way to discover a place was on foot! I imagine you're making lovely discoveries on your own. London has always been a dream of mine, I sure hope I get to go there some day.

Thank you for your book recommendation, I have never heard about her but I'm sure she is a fantastic writer, I do trust your taste.

Absolutely gorgeous photos as usual. I think walking is the best way to get around, as well. It's satisfying to know that I can rely on my feet to get me anywhere I want to go. I love in Pride and Prejudice when Elizabeth says to Darcy "I'm very fond of walking." It's so simple. but says so much. It's an act of independence to get yourself to where you want to go just by using your own body. These photos actually remind me quite a bit of Pride and Prejudice (the Joe Wright version). Your blog and writing are an inspiration.